


Must Love Pundit

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, M/M, Pining, Tommy needs a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 00:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Tommy's been thinking about getting a dog. Jon's been thinking about Tommy.





	Must Love Pundit

**Author's Note:**

> Please be super fourth-wall-conscious with this, please, y'all. It's locked for a reason, yada yada. Thank you!
> 
> Huge thanks to the terrific and (wow! very!) speedy beta work of one [la_dissonance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/pseuds/la_dissonance)! Any errors are definitely mine.

"Hey," Tommy says, dropping his messenger bag on the desk. "I booked a couple of appointments to see some rescue dogs after we record, you want to come along with me?"

"I'm very busy and important," Jon says, automatically, and then, before Tommy can say anything else, "Yes, of course. Do I want to go pet a bunch of dogs while watching strangers grill you about your lifestyle and suitability? Obviously, yes." 

"If you come along, they might grill you, too."

Jon scoffs. "Like I don't know exactly how to convince people to trust me with their beloved puppies. People trust me with their lives.”

There’s a pointed silence from Tommy, and Jon readjusts. “Well, people _would_ trust me with their lives, if I were in a different profession or situation. The point is that these dog-rescue nutjobs will think I’m amazing, and you’re a risky decision.”

“Call them nutjobs and we’ll see if that sways the conversation,” Tommy says. He starts pulling out his gear, getting settled in, and Jon grabs Pundit so he has something to look at other than the play of Tommy’s arm muscles.

“They are, let’s not pretend we don’t both know they are. Let me guess, they want to come to your home and poke around all your drawers, right? And they want to be able to call all your friends and ask invasive questions. And if you don’t have a ten-foot fence you’re a monster whose dog will definitely die in the street. This is why I got a puppy. The dog-rescue people do not understand the customer-service experience. It’s 2017, people. No one wants you criticizing their house. They had to forego a lot of avocado toast to get that fucking house.”

“You didn’t ‘get’ a puppy,” Tommy starts to correct, but Jon doesn’t have to concede the point because that’s when Favs and Tanya walk in with a tray from Starbucks. Jon mentally awards himself the win for that conversation. Tommy will see his logic is sound soon enough.

***

Favs agrees, under some duress—whatever, he can take it, he’s an adult who could have refused if he’d really wanted to—that he and Emily can watch Pundit for the evening. 

Jon’s glad to be riding in Tommy’s car; his has been making a worrying noise the last few days, not unlike a really aggressive chef dicing onions, and he’s definitely probably going to get that checked out soon. Tommy doesn’t need to know about it. Tommy worries. 

Tommy’s car is short on snacks, however, so Jon directs them to Del Taco first. “They won’t care if we’re late,” he points out. “They’ll care a lot if you’re hangry. Hangry people don’t get dogs, Tommy. Their rules are bullshit but that one’s fair. If you can’t feed yourself regularly enough to stay even-tempered, how are you supposed to protect the health of your Chihuahua or whatever the fuck we’re going to go pet?”

“Berner,” Tommy says, and steals one of Jon’s fries, which was the inevitable result of Jon correctly ordering a combo while Tommy only got a burrito. “Bernese Mountain Dog. Or a mix with something else big, like a Newfie.”

“I’m sorry?” Jon asks, warming up to this topic immediately. He can dine out on this topic. “You’re getting a Bernie Sanders? Do you think that’s going to play well to our audience? Do you maybe want to rethink this decision and go look at some nice, like, Kamala terriers? A,” he pauses, reaching for another good one, “a Kanderdoodle?”

Tommy flips him off, and steals several more fries. That, too, was inevitable. Jon only gets the combo so that Tommy can steal his fries. Tommy loves fries, even shitty crinkle fries, but never orders them, like eating Jon’s somehow doesn’t count as indulging. “They’re good dogs. This one’s only six months old and loves everybody. Good with cats, if I want to get a cat.”

“You don’t want to get a cat,” Jon tells him. Tommy ignores him, although possibly because some prick in a yellow convertible has just cut him off.

“Anyway, after this appointment there’s a couple of dogs at the Labrador rescue in the same neighborhood, they said we could pop by whenever.” 

“I see how it is. You need a giant, athletic dog to feel manly. Some of us can feel fully masculine even while walking something small and fluffy. I think you need to contemplate what shortcomings—real or imagined—are making you seek out this big, fur-covered dick replacement, Tommy. Is this the first step on the path to buying a Porsche? Because Favs and I will have to stage an intervention.” He’s amazed Tommy hasn’t interrupted him; the traffic’s not even that bad. He munches on taco while he thinks of how he can walk that back from the edge of offensiveness—possibly from a bit over the edge—if Tommy doesn’t parry. 

Tommy taps a thumb on the steering wheel. “I like Pundit and Leo,” he says. Apparently he’s going to leave the dick-replacement comment just lying there, unanswered. “I just miss how much room a big dog takes up. They’re just so present, you know? And you can get on the floor and wrestle them.” He sounds so fond and sincere. Jon can’t take much of that without flinching. He flips on the stereo, finds KIIS-FM. 

“Sounds nice,” he says, over the much less emotionally genuine strains of Bruno Mars’ “That’s What I Like.” 

His life would be much easier if Tommy could be less genuine. Or at least less attractive. The latter might not be impossible. “Have you ever considered a mullet? I think it would work on you. Be an exciting change.”

Tommy looks away from the road just long enough to fully, if non-verbally, express his thoughts on that, and then changes the subject back to dogs. “Anyway, I want to go running more. It’d be nice to have a companion.”

Jon presses a hand to his heart. “ _I_ could be your running buddy, Tommy. You don’t even have to take me to the vet or buy me celebrity dog food. You can turn this car right around. You know what, I’ll wrestle with you on the floor, too. Turkish rules, you know, just a lot of oil and a jockstrap.”

“In your dreams, Lovett,” Tommy says, and he steals the whole bag of fries this time. 

***

They aren’t particularly late, by Jon’s standards at least. Tommy’s more flustered about it, of course, but that’s just Tommy when he’s under stupid pressure. Tommy under real pressure—issues of national importance, or family obligations, or major business issues—is a rock. Tommy when he feels bad about something stupid and minor and, in Jon’s opinion, far beneath his notice, can be a frazzled wreck. 

Jon refrains from offering him a neck rub. 

“They’re going to love you,” Jon says. “Although not as much as they’re going to love me, of course.”

“Of course,” Tommy says. He rings the doorbell. There’s resounding, muffled barking from within. 

The woman who answers is exactly what Jon would have predicted: heavy-set, sporty, with a no-nonsense haircut and a hardworking sports bra under a t-shirt advertising a gay softball league. She’s wearing Birkenstocks. Jon sometimes just loves humanity, until he remembers who the president is.

“Hi, I’m Tommy Vietor,” Tommy says, and reaches out to shake. Jon bypasses the whole introduction to focus on the two snouts crowding his side of the doorway.

“Hello, precious,” he croons at the nearest one. “Aren’t you just the biggest slobberiest thing in the world?”

“Uh, that’s Jon,” Tommy says. Jon moves his head slightly in acknowledgement. He’s decided he no longer cares about charming the rescue lady. He’s not adopting a dog, after all. He’s just along for the ride. 

The rescue lady—Rhonda—invites them through the house to the backyard. The dogs stick close to Jon, not least because he won’t stop petting them even to walk. Tommy may have a point about this big-dog thing; he certainly can’t walk and pet Pundit at the same time, unless he’s carrying her. He doesn’t even have to stoop to pet these guys.

“I’m sold,” he tells Tommy when Rhonda steps briefly out of earshot. “Let’s just grab one and run for the car. We can beat her, she’s in sandals.”

Tommy ignores him, which is fine because the dogs are giving him enough attention for right now, and anyway Rhonda’s back beside them and their moment is lost. He crouches to let the dogs lick his face. “Don’t worry,” he tells them. “I’ve had all my shots.”

“Good to know,” Rhonda says, drily.

“Sorry about him,” Tommy says. His own hand has drifted down to pat the nearest big fluffy head. “So do you only host the rescues or are some of these guys yours?”

Rhonda points out one of the less ridiculously large ones. “She’s mine. But this guy—” a grizzled, slow-moving, contented one “—is a long-term foster, not likely to be adopted. So he’s mine too, really. He’s a good boy.” 

“The lifespan is one of the only concerns I have,” Tommy says. Jon keeps catching glimpses of his fingers on the soft fur around the nearest dog’s ears. The dog looks besotted with Tommy. Jon knows that feeling.

“Focus on other things,” he whispers to the dog. “Get a hobby.” She doesn’t listen, of course. He knows that feeling, too. It’s all well and good to think you can talk yourself out of being in love with Tommy, but he hasn’t managed it yet. He will, though. He’ll figure it out. Maybe he should get another dog. 

“—so it’s definitely something to be thoughtful about,” Rhonda is saying. “The veterinary costs for one of these guys is nothing to joke about. Year-on-year, you’re looking at sometimes ten, fifteen grand towards the end of their lives. Food’s more expensive, too. Grooming, if you’re not willing to do it yourself—and it’s a real hassle—that adds up faster than you could guess.”

“The, uh.” Tommy pauses, delicately. “The financial aspect is less of a concern.”

Rhonda shrugs. “Okay, well, nice if you’ve got it,” she says. “So the emotional part—it sucks. It does. I’ve lost more dogs than my friends with smaller breeds, there’s no two ways about it. You’re just not going to have a fifteen-year bond with a Berner.”

Jon doesn’t love this conversation. Pundit’s practically a baby, and she probably does have a good fifteen years in her, but that’s still not enough. Science should have fixed this by now. There should be doggy anti-aging serums. They could advertise on the podcast. No: they wouldn’t need to advertise. Talk about a product that would sell itself. Jon would buy stock in that company the minute it went public. Maybe he should ask around, see if someone’s already patented anything in the field.

“—Jon’s dog, Pundit,” Tommy says, and Jon starts paying attention again. “She’s about fifteen pounds and sometimes she gets pretty wild, so I want to make sure there’s not a prey-instinct issue. We could bring her by? Is that the best option?”

“Sure,” Rhonda says. “Or we could combine it with the home visit. Sometimes that works best, when the smaller dog is already in the home.”

“Oh, uh,” Tommy says. “Pundit doesn’t live there. We don’t, uh, live together.” 

“Yet,” Jon says, just to stir the pot. He glances up to see Tommy glaring at him, and it makes him double down on the joke. Backing out of it feels like an admission he can’t afford to make. “You know, early days. We don’t want to ruin a good thing with too much domesticity, right? Lose the spontaneity, take each other for granted.” He forces a grin, watching Tommy try to figure out how to walk this back. 

Rhonda nods approvingly. “Well, taking time and care with big decisions is central to what we’re looking for in applicants,” she says. “Why don’t you guys throw a ball with Jazz for a while, see how she responds to you?”

“I’d love to,” Jon says, throwing as much charm as he can muster. Tommy sighs. 

At least Jon was right about his ability to impress the rescue people. That’s enough of a win for right now.

***

“Do not tell the Labrador people that we’re dating,” Tommy says. “Okay? Can we just set that boundary, please?” 

“Look, you’re the one who wanted to Pundit-test the dog and not a word about Leo. How do you think Leo feels right now? Neglected. Unloved. Forgotten. Much like a rescue dog in need of a home, in fact.”

Tommy turns the radio up. Jon is not about to allow Tommy to use his own techniques against him. “If the Labrador people choose to make assumptions I’m not going to no-homo them, that’s all I’m saying.” Shouting, technically.

“You’re a menace!” Tommy shouts back, which isn’t actually an argument, so Jon leaves it there and starts humming along to the heteronormative sound of Ed Sheeran.

The Labrador house is much more what Jon was expecting: big, ramshackle, and worse for wear. The fence has holes cut in it at intervals, with yellow and black dog faces poking out of them, tongues lolling. When they pull into the driveway the barking starts, outrageously loud. Jon is grateful he doesn’t live in this neighborhood.

“Well,” he says when Tommy turns off the engine, and the radio goes silent. He still has to shout, because of the dogs. “If you adopt one of these you’ll be helping to preserve the hearing of the neighborhood children. It would be a doubly charitable act.”

Tommy does not look pleased. “This has to be in breach of the city by-laws,” he says. “I should check on that.”

“After I charm them,” Jon tells him. “I’m going for two out of two. Although Rhonda loved me enough for any six rescue people.”

“She loved your completely made-up story about our dating life.” Tommy unclasps his seatbelt, but looks nervous about getting out of the car. 

“I told you I was going to lie. I’m certain I made that point very clear. Look, I’m a politician in waiting, this is what we do. Lie in order to charm our sporty lesbian constituents into giving us what we want. Votes, dogs, help with a finicky power drill.”

Tommy scrubs a hand over his face, and gets out of the car. The barking, if it’s possible, gets louder. Jon is actually concerned for the dogs’ vocal cords, at this point. 

The front door opens before they reach it. “You must be Tom!” the woman behind it says. She’s pretty but bedraggled; she’s another version of this house, overrun and way over her limits. Her jeans have holes that weren’t inserted artfully by Paige Denim, and her ponytail has more lost strands than captured. 

“Tommy,” he corrects, not as smooth as he usually is. Jon can see him looking past her, into the house, but she closes the door on it and takes them around to the fence gate. Tommy doesn’t introduce Jon, and Jon decides to stay quiet, for once. Tommy doesn’t like this; Tommy has good instincts. 

The yard isn’t one, anymore. It’s dirt and dog-clawed holes, and no small amount of unscooped poop. The dogs themselves are healthy, as far as Jon can tell; they’re not skinny, and their fur is bright when they come out into patches of sun between the trees. 

“We’re a little overrun,” the woman says. Jon missed her name. “This here is Laila, and that one with the ball is Kimmel. He’s pretty ball-obsessed. They’re all pretty ball-obsessed,” she says, and in that moment she sounds exhausted. “We had an automatic—one of those tennis-ball launchers they could reload themselves?—but it broke and it’s just a lot lower on the priority list than food and vet care.” 

Tommy doesn’t seem to know what to say. Jon can understand that; he’s got a dozen questions, but probably none of them are appropriate. He tries the most benign: “How long have Laila and Kimmel been here?”

“Oh, only a few months,” she says. “Laila was a drop-off, we don’t know much about her. Kimmel was a return—we adopted him out, but the family decided that he was too much for them. He’s a lot, there’s no question about that. Having the other dogs around helps, though. And the Prozac, of course.”

“Of course,” Jon echoes. “Laila’s not as—much?”

The woman shakes her head. Laila’s leaning against her knee, staring up at her. “My best guess is Laila had some early obedience training—not pet classes but someone kind of serious about it. She learns fast and she likes to please. But she’s still a Lab, she’s an energy ball. Her more than most, actually, because she’s got better breeding—not one of those guys,” pointing at a couple of generously proportioned dogs snoozing in the shade. “She’s got stamina for ages, so if she doesn’t get enough exercise in, it’s a bad scene. But she listens and she isn’t a jumper, which puts her ahead of a lot of the dogs we’re trying to rehome.”

She glances around the yard. “We’re one of the lucky rescues, actually. This part of the country’s overrun with the little dogs. Chihuahuas, Yorkie crosses, poodle crosses—anything small and cute. The Lab problem’s not that bad, except there’s a smaller pool of adopters, too. So we’ve got longer foster times, and never enough foster homes. We’re down two at the moment. Two and a half. It’s,” she waves a hand, “complicated.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. His face is set. “If we throw a few balls, will it cause chaos, or would it be good for them?”

“Oh, good for them,” she says. “You’d be doing my arm a favor. And it’s the best way to interact with Kimmel. I’ll grab the Chuck-it.” 

Jon leans into Tommy’s space once it’s just them in the yard. “She seems like she’s trying,” he says. “Don’t know if you really want to haul her up before the by-laws cops, or whatever.” 

Tommy shakes his head, staring out at the yard. “She’s doing fine,” he says. “This sucks. People are so fucking shitty sometimes, abandoning their dogs and not caring who takes on that responsibility.”

Jon blows out a breath. “Yeah. That part sucks.” 

“Here you go!” The woman’s re-emerged, Chuck-it in hand. Jon’s never had a yard big enough to justify one, but he used to wield Mia’s at the farm, and he’s comfortable with it. He takes the first rally, dogs crowding him as soon as he has a ball in hand. 

“Steady, there,” Tommy says, bracing Jon’s shoulder when the dogs threaten to tip him. Jon winds up and throws, and the whole horde of them go racing for the corner of the yard. He can’t sort one dog from another, but he thinks the dog that slots the ball right back into his hand might be Kimmel. 

He hands the ball, saliva-wet, and the Chuck-it to Tommy, who doesn’t need any instructions; the ball goes sailing off into a different corner, and the dogs with it. “Laila’s not on medication?” Tommy asks. 

“Not her. She’s one of the easy ones, all things considered,” the woman says. She sits, just far enough from them that when the dogs swarm Tommy, she doesn’t get trampled. 

They throw the ball for half an hour. By the end, four dogs are still going strong; Jon thinks a couple of them could go all night. He’s tired just thinking about it. “They’re sweethearts,” Tommy tells the woman. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure,” she says. “Okay if I don’t get up?”

“No problem,” Tommy says, and they let themselves out.

They’re quiet in the car. Jon wonders how much an automatic ball-thrower costs, and how much Kimmel’s Prozac is. “Laila was nice.”

“Yeah. I don’t know if she’ll be good with Pundit, though.” Tommy’s driving slowly, eyes sweeping the road for bikes and kids and squirrels.

Jon feels stupid, suddenly, for having been flippant about all of this; he doesn’t know how to say it. “Sorry I told Rhonda we were dating,” he says, which doesn’t really capture it.

“It’s fine,” Tommy says. 

It had been fine, Jon’s sure, in the warmth of Rhonda’s yard, where the dogs were just dogs, not some kind of abject metaphor for Trump’s America. There’s no talking Tommy down on days like this, though; when he takes the world on his shoulders, jokes don’t help. Alcohol helps, sometimes, but Jon knows enough to know Tommy isn’t going to let Jon get him drunk on a Monday evening just to drown his sorrows. “That’s basically an engraved invitation to alcoholism,” Tommy had said once, and it had started a stupid and petty argument that Jon does not want to repeat.

Tommy doesn’t handle the small awfulness of the world well. Jon doesn’t handle not being able to make Tommy feel better well. The inside of the car is still and small and airless. 

“We should go back and pet Jazz,” Jon says, finally, one last-ditch effort before they turn onto his street. “She was very cheering.” 

“I’ll text you about bringing Pundit over for the home visit,” Tommy says. He pulls up in front of Jon’s house, and Jon, reluctantly, gets out. 

“Look, meditate or something, would you? Or call me if you get too bummed out about the state of the world. We can go for a jog.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says, and drives away.

***

Jon brings Pundit over to Tommy’s on Wednesday to meet Jazz. He brushes her first, clips her toenails, puts a stupid bow tie on her collar. “Don’t embarrass Tommy in front of Rhonda,” he tells her, and takes her ignoring him as a good enough answer. 

Rhonda runs late, which is fair enough, since they’d done the same to her. They sit on the couch, Pundit curled up in Tommy’s lap. Tommy’s mostly back to normal today, but Jon’s glad he has Pundit to pet while they wait. “Should we offer her a beer?” Jon asks.

“Sure,” Tommy says. “Or do you think that makes it sound like we condone drinking and driving? I wouldn’t give a dog to someone who might drive drunk with it.”

“I’ll offer her soda,” Jon amends. “Do you want something?”

Tommy shakes his head. 

The house is spotless. It’s not the aesthetic Jon would have gone with for this interview; surely a bit shabby makes more sense when you’re looking to adopt a hundred-pound ball of undercoat and drool. Jon would have at least left a throw blanket out of place, some newspapers on the entry table, something that says “I’m not a high-functioning germaphobe with control issues.” 

Rhonda’s arrival is heralded by Pundit leaping off Tommy’s lap and running to the door. Jon’s not sure what she heard, but he picks her up and opens the door for Rhonda and Jazz, Tommy close behind him.

“Hey, hi, welcome,” Jon says. Jazz pushes past him as soon as Rhonda lets go of the leash, sniffing around the house. The smells of a new place are more interesting than near-strangers she’s already met, it seems. Jon’s not sure if that’s a trait he could go for in a dog. He likes neediness in an animal; it makes him feel loved. 

Tommy’s chatting with Rhonda about the weather—the morning was full of flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder across a bone-dry sky—and Jon hands Pundit to him so he can get drinks. “Rhonda, you want a soda or something?”

“Beer’d be great if you have one,” she says, cheerfully. Jon smiles at her. If someone’s going to examine Tommy’s lifestyle for signs he’s good enough for a dog, he’s okay with it being Rhonda. 

He brings them all beers—Miller Lite for himself and something small-brew and aggressively hoppy for the other two—and takes Pundit back, settling on the sofa next to Tommy. Jazz’s sniffing path brings her back around, and, under Rhonda’s watchful eye, he lets Pundit lean off his lap to check Jazz out. 

“Pundit’s always been around other dogs,” Tommy says. “She’s great with them. But most of our friends have smaller dogs.”

“That’s the norm around here,” Rhonda says. “Smaller than her, even. Purse dogs. Though you do see a range. I’ve been seeing more native-type dogs, like Basenjis and the strays you get in Central and South America, smooth-coated guys with pointy ears and curly tails.”

Tommy perks up. “I read that’s the prototypical dog,” he says. “Square build, slim, with those ears and tails and wrinkled foreheads. And they don’t bark, they make other noises.”

“Sure.” Rhonda nods. “Yodeling, in the basenjis. New Guinea Singing Dogs have that really distinct set of noises. What’s interesting is as you go farther north, you get the same features coming out but better suited to the climate—bigger dogs, heavy fur, but the same curled tail and the ears and the overall shape and build. Alaskan Malamutes, basically. Release every dog on the planet, you’ll end up pretty quickly with something like a Basenji at the equator, something like a Malamute at the poles, and gradations in between, based on climate.” 

“And a lot fewer rabbits, I’m guessing,” Jon jokes, but they aren’t really listening to him. He lets Pundit jump off his lap to sniff Jazz; she can’t reach Jazz’s rear, but she gives it a good attempt, and Jazz shifts around to smell Pundit’s. They circle each other for a while and then Pundit jumps back onto the couch, into Tommy’s lap, and Jazz puts her big head on Jon’s knee. “Hey, there, gorgeous,” he tells her. 

Rhonda’s watching them, so Jon forces a trade, plucks Pundit off Tommy’s lap and pushes Jazz toward him. He’s not the one auditioning for a dog, here; he’s got his already. Besides, he likes the way Tommy plays with Jazz’s ears, smiling down at her. He looks fond of her already, or fond of the idea of her, at least. 

“So how did you two meet?” Rhonda asks.

“Work,” Jon says. 

Tommy must be feeling expansive. “We worked in the White House together, actually. Jon was a speechwriter, I was in the press office.” 

“He was on the National Security team,” Jon clarifies, because he hates when Tommy talks down his credentials. “Saving-the-world stuff.”

Tommy huffs a laugh. “Telling reporters about other people saving the world. Definitely not personally saving the world.”

“Don’t listen to him, Rhonda. He had the tights and the cape and everything. Still does, do you want to see them?” He tips his head toward the stairs, just to hear Tommy laugh again. 

“You guys are cute,” she says. “Shall we look at the backyard, then?”

*** 

Rhonda and Jazz stay for almost an hour. They all get caught up in talking—at first about dogs, but then about politics, and no small amount about LA traffic. Jazz falls asleep across Tommy’s feet after a while, and Pundit on the couch next to Jon’s thigh. Jon could get used to this, even if, without Rhonda here, he wouldn’t be pressed as close to Tommy as he is now. 

Tommy walks them to the door. Jon hears the whisper of conversation from his spot on the couch, the easy rhythm of “I’ll be in touch” and “thanks for coming.” Tommy comes back in and leans on the arm of the couch instead of settling back down next to Jon. “She’s going to start calling references,” he says. “I think … I’m concerned that I might have to tell Favs and some other people to lie to her. Which I don’t really want to do.” 

“They don’t need to lie,” Jon says. “Why would they need to lie? You’d be an exemplary dog owner. Is this about the travel? Because you don’t travel that much. Lots of people travel more than you. It does suck that you couldn’t bring Jazz with you on planes, but we’ll find you a good kennel. Her home away from home.”

Tommy picks up his beer, rolls it between his fingers. “Yeah, no, not about the travel,” he says, and pauses, like Jon is supposed to guess whatever self-defeating high-integrity nonsense he’s worried about. Tommy waits; Jon waits. “Jon. She thinks we’re together.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “Right. That.” He scrunches up his face, not quite an apology. “That probably won’t come up, though, right?”

“I have no idea,” Tommy says. “But if it does, they’re going to be really fucking confused.” 

Jon’s pretty sure they’ll be confused regardless, but at least this can be blamed on him, pretty accurately. “Who’s on your reference list? I’ll tell Favs.”

“Shomik,” Tommy says. “And my mom. Oh, fuck, my mom.”

“Oops,” Jon says.

***

“Sorry, you need me to what?” Favs has paused with his beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten in midair. 

“Look, it was just a joke,” Jon says. He knows he sounds defensive, but he can’t help it. This was why he wanted to talk to Favs instead of letting Tommy do it.

“Lovett,” Favs says, setting the beer down. “That’s not much of a joke.”

Jon grits his teeth. “It’s an excellent joke. I tell it all the time. You guys hear me tell it all the time. It’s a solid four percent of my humor, pretending I’m dating you guys.”

Favs just looks at him across the table. It’s not a subtle look. Jon lays his cheek on the table and folds his hands over his head. “Okay. Okay. I know it was stupid.”

“Just as a life rule, I try not to pretend to date people I’m in love with,” Favs says. “Particularly not in some kind of long-form way that commits me to adopting a dog with them.”

“I’m not adopting a dog with him! He’s adopting a dog and—fuck.” Jon lifts his head off the table. “I need a better drink. Also, I might have donated a thousand dollars to a Labrador rescue in his name.” 

“Which he will also probably find out about?” Favs asks, and Jon makes a face. “Awesome. Nothing about any of this is going to have any effect on our work, I’m sure.”

“I’ll send him some apology Postmates and talk about how great apology Postmates can be in the next ad,” Jon says. “You’ll see, it’ll be fine.” He waves down the waitress and orders a vodka cranberry. “Make it a double, please. Thanks. Yes.” Then, to Favs, “It’ll be fine. You’ll just lie to the nice rescue lady, and he’ll get a dog. It’ll be fine.” 

“Clearly,” Favs says. “I can tell from how calm and sober you are.” 

Jon ignores that comment, since it deserves to be ignored, and checks his mentions. Nothing that merits response. His drink is slid onto the table, and he pours half of it back before he returns his attention to Favs. 

“We support Tommy getting a dog, right? What if he dotes on it and stops paying enough attention to Leo and Pundit? They’ve come to expect a certain amount of time and love from him.”

“That’s not a subtle allegory, Lovett,” Favs says. “That’s not allegory at all, that’s just you talking about not wanting Tommy to abandon you for a dog.”

“Tommy would never abandon me for a dog.” Jon runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Okay, then,” Favs says. “We support him.”

Jon swallows. “Yeah. No, right, we do.”

Jon dreams that night about Tommy turning into a big, fluffy dog, and about the office filling up with cages of sad-eyed Chihuahuas. He wakes up groggy, and hits snooze six times before he manages to get out of bed.

***

Tommy texts Jon after work on Tuesday. _Chrissy from the Lab rescue says she can bring Laila by tonight. Bring Pundit?_

Jon can’t tell, from that, whether he found out about the donation or not. _Sure you don’t want to mix it up? Favs could bring Leo over probably._

There’s a long pause, long enough to make Jon start pacing around his house, looking for things to distract himself, but not long enough to actually complete any chores. Finally, Jon fills the silence himself: _Okay_ , Jon sends back. _Want me to bring food?_

_Nah, just yourself and Pundit. She’ll be here in 10-15._

Jon pockets his phone, puts his hands over his face, and groans. He lets himself have that for twenty beautiful seconds, and then he grabs his wallet, his keys, and Pundit. “C’mon, girl. Let’s go meet a rowdy Labrador and not accidentally suggest to any strangers that we’re dating Tommy, huh? That sound like a plan?”

Pundit stares at him. He decides not to press her for an answer.

***

Laila and Chrissy nearly beat Jon to the house. Laila looks the same; Chrissy looks much less tired today, and better put together—still casual, ready to wrestle a pack of dogs for sure, but not like she’s done so already and come out the worse for it. 

“Jon, hi!” She’s holding Laila back by the collar, but Jon can see how excitedly Laila’s sniffing them all, trying to get to him and Tommy and Pundit all at once.

“Let me get the door,” Tommy says, sliding past Jon to shut it. “You can let Laila go—she’s housebroken, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Chrissy says. “She’ll probably do some running once I let her loose, though, is everything secure?”

Tommy nods. “I figured, so I dog-proofed this afternoon. She’s rambunctious.” He’s smiling as he says it. Jazz, Jon thinks, can’t really be described as rambunctious. 

Laila does run a few circles around the downstairs, but not as crazily as Jon was expecting; she’s mostly frantically sniffing everything, and running back to check in with them. She shoves her head against their hands for petting, and lifts her nose up to sniff in Pundit’s general direction, but doesn’t jump for her. 

Pundit’s more interested in Laila than she was in Jazz; Jon has to hold her tight to keep her from trying to jump to the ground. “Has she been around any smaller dogs?” he asks Chrissy.

She shakes her head. “Not really,” she says. “We should be cautious. She’s good with my friend’s cats but that’s not always a safe barometer.”

Jon sits on the sofa with Pundit, as he had last time, and Laila comes running up, tail wagging, sniffing Pundit all over. Pundit barks at her, once, and she backs up several steps before leaning back in. “I like to see that,” Chrissy offers. “Her taking the little one seriously.” Jon likes it, too. 

“Pundit knows how to say no,” he says. “Although she doesn’t always listen. Bit of a humping problem when she’s around some of her relatives.” 

Tommy snorts. “She’d have a hard time trying to hump Laila.” 

Laila’s wiggling with how excited she is, but she isn’t jumping on the couch. “She’s got good, uh, self-management,” Tommy says. “Self-control.”

“It’s probably her best trait,” Chrissy agrees. “In a big group she’ll follow the leader, but by herself she sticks to the rules pretty well.” 

Pundit’s still scrabbling to get down, and finally Jon lets her. She lands in front of Laila and they start sniffing each other, circling, and then go racing off toward the other end of the living room together. Jon can feel how closely Tommy and Chrissy are watching them, just as much as he is, but it seems fine—they’re playing, Pundit jumping up and around Laila and Laila matching her speed to Pundit’s.

“Good,” Chrissy says, quietly. 

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. He’s smiling again. He sits down, finally, right next to Jon as though he’s forgotten that this is the rescue lady they _didn’t_ semi-accidentally scam about the nature of their relationship. His thigh is warm against Jon’s, though, so Jon isn’t going to say anything. “So she was just dropped off?”

“Tied to my porch,” Chrissy says. “There was a note, but by the time I woke up and found her, she’d eaten most of it. Just out of boredom, you know. She’s not a bad chewer as long as she’s got enough toys around. She has a microchip, but the information had all been changed to John Doe, 123 Main Street, that kind of thing, and the microchip company doesn’t store old information, so.”

Tommy claps his hand against his knee, and Laila comes running, licking his fingers and rubbing her head against him until he starts petting her, and then up against Jon until he joins in. “It’s—it must be hard, running the rescue. All the people who just abandon their dogs.”

There’s a pause. Jon looks up from Laila to see Chrissy visibly putting her words together. “Yes. It’s hard. Some of the time it’s wretched. It’s been a bad six months, but a good six years. It’ll be good again. I really appreciated your donation—you didn’t have to do that. That kind of money, it makes a really big difference.”

Tommy looks up, then, the movement caught in Jon’s peripheral vision. “Sorry?”

“Your—the—” She pauses. 

“Oh, uh, that was me,” Jon says. Tommy’s head moves again. Jon doesn’t have to look to know Tommy’s staring at him. “I just put it in his name because, you know. He’s the Lab guy, not me.” 

“This Lab sure seems to like you,” Chrissy says, and it’s a welcome change of topic. 

Pundit, getting jealous perhaps, comes up then to bark at Laila and get her moving again, the two of them darting off in the direction of the kitchen, and then back across the living room. They’re beautiful together, the light gold of Laila’s smooth coat against the honey-brown of Pundit’s. Tommy reaches under the coffee table and finds a rope toy to throw to them, and they watch Laila toss it in the air and catch it, Pundit trying and mostly failing to wrest it from her. 

“They get along well,” Chrissy says. “That’s good.” 

“She’s a really good dog.” Tommy nearly always sounds sincere, but this is him at his most earnest. “She’s a love.” 

“Yeah,” Chrissy says. “Look, I’ll call a reference or two, but honestly, she’s yours if you want her. I can tell she’s a good fit. You run, right?”

Tommy nods. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to go with a smaller dog,” he says. “Pundit likes it fine, but not the long runs.” 

“And you grew up with Labs,” Chrissy says. Jon doesn’t remember Tommy saying that; maybe it had been in his application. Either way, Tommy nods, smiles, gets out his phone to show her pictures of his family’s dogs. 

“She’s a love,” he says again, after they’ve exhausted his pictures, and then a number of puppy photos on Chrissy’s phone, and then a few particularly cute Pundit shots on Jon’s. “It’s a big decision, though. I’ll need a few days. Is that all right?”

Chrissy nods, smiling. She whistles for Laila, who comes running with Pundit at her heels. “I’m sure you’ll want to talk it over,” she says, shaking Jon’s hand as well as Tommy’s. “You’ve got my number.”

Tommy comes back from the door. He sits next to Jon again, staring out at the wall. “How much did you donate?” he asks, bluntly.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Jon tries, knowing it’s not going to work. 

Tommy pats his lap until Pundit jumps up. “I’ll ask Chrissy instead, if you’re not going to tell me.” He looks like he means it, and Jon tips his head back against the couch in surrender.

“A grand,” he mumbles. 

There’s a ringing silence. Jon squeezes his eyes shut against it until he can’t take it, then says, “Look, what else is TV money good for if you can’t help some dogs, right? It’s—I know you felt shitty about everything, and I just wanted to help.” He’s pretty sure charitable giving isn’t supposed to make you feel guilty. 

Tommy stands up, passing Pundit over to Jon’s lap. Jon hadn’t even had time to get used to the feel of him yet. “I should—I should call Rhonda,” he says. “I don’t think I’m going to adopt Jazz.”

“Guess you don’t have to tell your mom to lie, then,” Jon says. Tommy doesn’t answer. He takes his phone into the kitchen, then out into the backyard, and after a few long minutes, Jon lets himself and Pundit out of the house and drives home. 

***

He texts Favs _Never mind about that thing. He picked a different dog._

Favs texts back _Have you done something else weird? Because the interview’s from 10AM tomorrow and I don’t want the Senator thinking we’re weirdos with interpersonal problems._

 _It’s fine_ , Jon sends, and turns his phone off.

***

Jon can’t sleep. He makes a Spotify playlist that starts with Eric Clapton’s “Layla” and spirals from there through a dozen much more revealing songs. He plays Portal for an hour, and then takes Pundit for a 2AM walk, in the opposite direction of Tommy’s house. 

Emily’s on the sidewalk when he comes back around. “Hey,” he says, as though it’s ordinary for her to be awake and outside at this hour of the morning. 

“Hey,” she says. “I’m worried about you. Come in and have some cocoa with me.” 

He follows her, Pundit pulling ahead of him towards Emily and Favs’ front door. “I’m fine,” he tells her, and she doesn’t refute it, just sets him to warming milk for her while she bustles around getting mugs and cinnamon and other things Jon doesn’t entirely recognize. 

They sit around the kitchen table, leaning on their elbows and blowing on the cocoa. “Do you ever think, maybe, you should just—decide, one way or another?” she asks, twirling a spoon in her mug. “Ask him, or force yourself to move on.”

“I didn’t need to, before,” Jon says. “It wasn’t a big deal.” He can’t pretend it isn’t now. 

Emily considers him, and attempts a sip of cocoa. From the look on her face, it’s still too hot. “What changed?”

Jon shakes his head. Proximity. Time. He’d had those things in D.C., too, but—“Tommy changed, I think,” he says. “Sometimes he—sometimes it doesn’t feel impossible. Just improbable’s never been enough to make me drop a good idea.” 

He sips his own cocoa. It burns his mouth, but it tastes amazing. “Do you have vanilla ice cream?”

“If you pick around the cookie-dough parts, sure,” she says, getting a pint out of the freezer for him. He spoons some into his cocoa and stirs it. It’s perfect. Emily follows his lead, and sips her own, looking pleased with their joint concoction. 

“He’d be kind,” she says. “If you told him. Either way, he’d be—he’s Tommy. He’d be great.” 

Jon takes a deeper swallow. He knows she’s right. That doesn’t actually help very much. “He’s adopting a Labrador,” he says instead. 

“Sounds about right,” she says. “He likes the rowdy ones.” 

***

The interview goes fine. The Senator finds them, on balance, charming. Jon was punchy, but he mostly kept it in check. It gets away from him more during the ads, after.

“So if you’re, for instance, if you’re adopting a dog, and you’re going to want to stay in and play with it all the time and you don’t want to have to go to the stupid Post Office: Stamps.com.” 

“Oh, is someone adopting a dog?” Favs says, grinning. “Has that been decided?”

Jon starts humming the chorus of “Layla,” and Tommy groans.

“It hasn’t been decided!” He says it indulgently, though, so Jon feels safe keeping up the teasing in their Omaha Steaks ad— “Their meat is so good that you won’t keep any back for your dog, even your super exciting brand new dog you’re about to adopt.”

“Okay, I think the people get it,” Tommy says. “Delicious meat. Possibly adopting a dog. Omaha Steaks, use coupon code ‘Crooked’ at check-out.” 

Producer Bill shakes his head at all of them, but doesn’t call for a re-record. 

Tommy grabs Jon’s sleeve as he’s heading out the door. “Let’s go get dinner,” he says.

Jon knows, before he says it, that “Sure, I’ll grab Favs?” is going to pull a headshake from Tommy, but he says it anyway. 

“Just you,” Tommy says. “I’ll drive. We can drop Pundit off on the way.”

In the car, Jon flips on the stereo, but Tommy hits the button on the steering wheel until the volume dials down to zero. Jon sits back and stares out the windshield. He has no remaining urge to hum. 

They drop Pundit off in silence. They drive to a steak place Tommy likes in silence. They get a booth in near-silence—Tommy lifts two fingers to specify their party number, but can’t stop himself from saying “thank you,” automatically to the hostess when they’re seated. 

Jon waits. In silence. 

“You like Laila,” Tommy asks, or says—it doesn’t have any inflection.

Jon nods. He likes Laila. She’s not a dog he’d have chosen, but she’s a good dog. 

“Me, too,” Tommy says. He’s quiet again. He glances down at the menu, just in time to tell their approaching waitress that he’d like a rib-eye, medium rare, and a baked potato, and a glass of Malbec. Jon orders a burger, fries, and a Miller Lite, partially to see if it will piss Tommy off. It doesn’t, which means he has no better read of the situation than he had before, and also means he could have gotten a steak and didn’t. 

The waitress moves away, and Tommy picks up a cocktail napkin and starts shredding it between his fingers. “I need to apologize,” he says.

“That seems unlikely,” Jon says, and Tommy looks up at him for the first time since they sat down.

Tommy shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about how to—I thought maybe I should just not say anything, but it’s, that’s not fair, that’s not who I want to be. The thing is,” and his words start getting faster, clustering together, harder for Jon to pick out, “I’ve been using you to fill this role in my life that I don’t have someone for, right now, and it’s not fair to you, because that’s not what you’re—because just because you’re here, and you’re generous with your time and your energy and your affection, I shouldn’t be using that for more than it, uh, more than it is, just because I wish things were different. And I’m not going to, to do that anymore. I think getting a dog will be good for me, for that, and I’ll—you know, I’ll get on Tinder or something, probably. Soon. Sometime. I haven’t been able to do that but I’ll, I’ll do that.” 

The cocktail napkin is in tiny pieces all over the table, and Tommy’s nearly run out of pieces big enough to shred. Jon trails a finger through the snowfall of them, trying to run what Tommy’s saying through the filter of the last weeks, the last months. “You—” His voice breaks, and he swallows. “I don’t understand, because it sounds like you’re saying you’re into me, but I would have noticed that, and, like, thrown a parade. March right past the Grove with ticker tape and a band and probably some drag queens on a float, because it’s not a parade without drag queens on a float.” 

He looks up, and the corner of Tommy’s mouth is starting to curl, ever so slightly, towards his cheek. “A parade?”

“Sure, yeah,” Jon says, getting into the rhythm of the bit now he thinks he might be on solid ground. “Maybe get one of those planes that drags a banner overhead, you know, some kind of ‘holy shit, world, Tommy Vietor is into me,’ kind of message, something to really express how unlikely and amazing that would—”

Tommy’s hand closes on his, across the middle of the table, and Jon’s train of thought comes to a halting stop. “Should I have thrown a parade, too?” Tommy asks. His fingers are warm and tight.

“I mean, do you think it’s parade-worthy if Jon Lovett is, is completely infatuated with you? Because that seems like more of a notecard occasion. Maybe Hallmark if you’re feeling festive. A balloon, possibly, just Sharpie on a regular store-bought one that doesn’t float because you exhausted your cheek muscles blowing it up. Or a—Tommy, you have to stop me or I could extend this riff literally forever.” 

He’s mesmerized by the width and the brightness of the smile across Tommy’s face. “I like it,” Tommy says. “It’s a good riff. Not the premise so much, but the content’s good.” 

“The premise of me being into you or the—”

“The premise of that not being worth a parade,” Tommy says. “It’s worth a fireworks display bigger than D.C.’s fourth of July show, as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Nice,” Jon says, as much about the metaphor as the compliment. He respects a good metaphor. He respects how Tommy’s hand is still wrapped around his, and he shifts until he can thread their fingers together. “You, uh. Just, this is definitely a romantic and sexual thing, right? I just don’t want there to be any confusion about what aspects of—”

Tommy’s thumbnail scrapes against the thin, sensitive skin under his wrist. “Yes,” Tommy says, very simply. Jon’s throat is exceptionally dry. 

He clears it, and tries to shift the conversation to something less likely to lead to public indecency charges. “Out of curiosity, what made you think I wasn't? Into you, I mean,” Jon asks. 

Tommy shrugs, chews on his bottom lip for a moment. “You always joke about it—about me and Favs both. It's so cavalier, I thought it was obvious you couldn't have feelings or you wouldn't be offering to Turkish wrestle me.”

Jon groans. “Hoist on my own petard,” he says. “Damaged by my own self-protective mechanism. Who could have seen that coming? Besides any therapist, probably.”

“I did google Turkish wrestling, though,” Tommy says. “It certainly is, ah, homoerotic.”

The pad of Tommy’s thumb traces across Jon’s wrist, right where he’d scratched before. Jon is suddenly short on oxygen. 

“Here you go!” The waitress is back, bearing a tray. She shifts their drinks up first, as their hands reluctantly part, and then the meals, smiles at them, and steps away. 

“So if we’re … into each other,” Jon says, carefully, “That means I can have half your steak, right?”

Tommy’s visibly fighting a smile. “See, I knew there would be downsides, but I figured I might not run into them within the first, say, ten minutes.”

“Then you picked the wrong guy,” Jon tells him. “I’m like eighty-two percent downsides.”

“I don’t think you are, actually,” Tommy says, and fuck, Jon wants to live up to that belief. 

“I’ll give you all my fries for half your steak.”

Tommy scoffs. “I don’t even like fries.”

Jon is not going to dignify that dirty lie with a response. “How about, give me half of your steak and after dinner I’ll make you glad you did,” he offers, and licks his bottom lip so there’s no confusing his meaning. 

Tommy carefully, and immediately, starts slicing half his steak away from the bone. 

Jon can work with that kind of responsiveness in a man.

***

The drive home from the restaurant is neither slow nor careful. In fact, if Jon had closed his eyes, he might not have believed Tommy was the one driving. It’s gratifying to know that Tommy’s this excited to get home with him, or it will be once they’ve actually made it back in one piece. 

They pull up at Jon’s. “I figured we should go where Pundit is,” Tommy says.

Jon thinks of the state his bedroom is in. “Yeah, no. Give me three minutes.” He looks at Tommy’s mouth. “Two minutes.” 

It takes him less than that to grab Pundit and her food, but he loses a minute and a half to stumbling into cleaner, more seductive underwear and two minutes to a partial sponge bath so he, too, might be cleaner and more seductive.

Tommy’s listening to music on Jon’s phone when he gets back. Specifically, Tommy is listening to the playlist from yesterday, which may or may not be titled “TV4 FML.” 

“I can explain,” Jon says.

“I don’t think you need to,” Tommy says. Through the speakers, Tove Lo is waxing poetic about perfect bodies. 

“Probably not, yeah,” Jon says, and gets in the car.

The drive to Tommy’s is slightly less rapid, probably because Tommy’s thinking about Pundit. Somehow, that makes Jon hotter still—that Tommy’s tamping down his need to get Jon into bed as quickly as possible because it’s less important than ensuring Jon’s dog is safe. On the stereo, Drunk in Love starts playing. Jon shifts in his seat. 

“It’s probably good that we’re going to yours,” Jon says. “There’s no way Emily and Jon wouldn’t notice your car in my driveway all night.”

Tommy glances at him, and back to the road. “Are we … we have to tell them,” he says. “I mean, I think we should tell them.”

“Telling them is different from being woken up by thirteen ‘OMFG’ texts,” Jon says. Tommy tilts his head in acknowledgement. “You know who’s going to be insufferable is Dan. This is like the pinnacle of his ‘get everybody into couples’ plan.” 

“I’m okay with not telling him,” Tommy says, grinning. “Jon will, though.” 

“Everyone we have ever met is going to know within thirty minutes of him finding out. Obama will probably know by Sunday. We might get a congratulations card.” 

Tommy reaches over and grabs Jon’s near hand. “Sounds okay to me,” he says. “We should make sure they all know about Laila, too, though. I don’t want her to be left out of all the congratulations.” 

“As long as she gets equal billing with Pundit,” Jon says. “Or secondary. Pundit was here first.” Tommy squeezes, and he laughs and gives in. “Equal, equal, all right. Full dog equality. No more talking about dogs,” he adds, as they pull, fucking finally, into the driveway. “Pundit comes inside and then it’s just purely human talk, yeah?”

“Works for me,” Tommy says.

The house is still and quiet and four degrees hotter than Jon’s, because Tommy is a much better environmentalist than Jon will ever be. He doesn’t care about any of it, because as soon as they’re in the door and Pundit’s leash is off, Tommy’s got his hands on Jon’s face and his mouth on Jon’s. 

“Mmph,” Jon says, and then gives up talking as a pointless exercise. Tommy’s mouth is insistent; Tommy’s whole body is insistent, shifting them back towards the wall and pressing Jon into it. 

Jon’s been working out; there’s a part of him that revels in the knowledge that he could probably, if he wanted, shove Tommy off of him. There’s a much bigger part of him that’s happy to pretend otherwise. Tommy is broad and strong against him, and Jon runs his hands up and down his sides, the trim muscles of his back. Tommy lets go of his mouth for a moment to gasp against it, their noses pressed tight together. “Upstairs,” Jon says, in that brief moment before Tommy kisses him again.

Tommy hums what Jon suspects is agreement, but they aren’t moving. If anything, they’re getting much more attached to the concept of the wall. Tommy’s hips are moving, now, rolling against Jon’s in a slow rhythm that makes Jon’s head spin. Jon turns his head enough to break the kiss, lips his way across Tommy’s jaw to his ear instead. 

“Upstairs,” he says again, quiet into Tommy’s ear. “I think I promised you something earlier and I’d hate to renege.” 

That works. Tommy drops his hand to Jon’s and all but drags him to the stairs. 

Tommy’s bedroom is slightly more mussed than Jon was expecting—not a mess, by any means, but not the quasi-military perfection that stress had sometimes driven him to in D.C. It looks lived-in and comfy. It looks like it would welcome a Labrador, or a Lovett. Hopefully both.

Jon pushes Tommy back onto the bed; he bounces as he lands, grinning up at Jon, reaching for Jon already. Jon bypasses his distracting mouth and goes straight for his fly, crouching in front of him. “Fuck,” Tommy says, and leans onto his elbows to watch. 

“Hand me a pillow,” Jon says, because Tommy’s bedroom floor is shiny hardwood, and Jon’s knees haven’t been nineteen for a long time. 

It’s hard to keep a smirk off his face, between the knowledge that he’s about to get to suck off Tommy Fucking Vietor the Fourth, and the certainty that he’s going to blow his mind. Tommy likes Jon’s smirks, anyway. 

He sits back on his heels before Tommy can get too excited. “Hang on for two seconds,” he says, and pulls out his phone.

“Uh,” Tommy manages, getting a hand between the phone’s camera lens and his crotch. His dick isn’t even out yet; Jon would have waited if his goal was just to snap a remembrance photo or something. Jon scoffs at him, and finishes linking up to Tommy’s Sonos. Drunk in Love starts up again. 

Tommy laughs, puts a hand over his face. “I’m never going to have control over my own speakers again, am I?”

“Hey, now,” Jon tells him. “Nothing wrong with a sex soundtrack. Keeps the awkward silences down to a minimum.” He can feel himself blustering, and he’s sure it’s obvious; it’s just too strange and overwhelming to be here, actually here, actually doing this. He likes Tommy watching him, but he also wants, very much, to turn all the lights off and act unobserved. 

He pushes through it, drops his phone on Tommy’s nightstand next to a well-thumbed book about conflict-negotiation techniques for the Middle East, and gets settled back between Tommy’s knees. 

Beyoncé sings, “I want you.” Jon pulls Tommy’s cock out of his jeans. 

Tommy’s body shivers, only perceptible because of the hand Jon’s got on his thigh. Jon likes that; he likes knowing the effect he’s having on Tommy. He wants to get a lot more out of him than just a shiver, though. 

It’s not a surprise that Tommy tastes clean and fresh, just on the edge of soapy, like the wholesome boy he is. It’s more of a surprise that he’s loud, spilling a grunt almost as soon as Jon’s mouth touches him. Jon’s used to quiet men, or men who are dirty-talk masters when they’re touching him, but go still and silent when they’re being pleasured in turn. 

Jon wants to hear more, so he doesn’t tease; he wraps his lips around Tommy and goes down. The groan he gets in return makes him hotter than anything that’s happened yet tonight, and he squeezes his fingers on Tommy’s thigh in a bid to ground himself. 

The music’s shifted, on to something sweeter, but Jon’s only listening past it to Tommy. He almost reaches for the nightstand to turn it off, except that Tommy might go quiet if he does. He wishes he’d taken Tommy’s jeans off, and that, he’s willing to pause for. “C’mere,” he says, not the right instruction but it’s clear enough once he starts yanking at Tommy’s jeans. 

The jeans drop to the hardwood, and Jon reaches up to trace the letters of his name at Tommy’s waistband, quirking a smile at Tommy. “Guess you’re telling the truth in those ads,” he says. 

“Most of the time,” Tommy agrees. He lifts up for Jon to peel them off, thighs flexing, and Jon scratches his nails down the bulging muscles. “Ah,” Tommy says, breath catching in his throat, so Jon does it again, and scrapes a thumbnail along the folded line where his hips meet one thigh. 

Tommy makes a soft noise in the back of his throat that might be better than any dozen orgasmic screams. Jon could get used to how easy Tommy is, how responsive. A man could get very addicted to this kind of appreciation for his efforts. 

He wants to keep playing with Tommy, testing his responses, but not as much as he wants Tommy’s cock back in his mouth. They can play later. 

A warm breath across his dick makes Tommy gasp; that’s a good thing to know. Sucking him back in makes him groan, which Jon knew already. But he doesn’t know what sounds he might get out of a good, steady rhythm and some ball-fondling. It turns out the answer is a mix of audible, desperate breathing noises, and the occasional swear word. Jon wants to record this and make it a soundtrack to replace all his porn. Well, maybe to supplement his porn. 

Tommy collapses back onto the bed, hands over his face, and he props one foot up on the edge of it. Jon takes immediate advantage, pushing Tommy’s shirt up to fondle his stomach, and then running his hand down to cup Tommy’s ass. Fuck. It feels ridiculous that he’s groping Tommy’s ass, even more ridiculous than that he’s sucking Tommy off. It feels like it shouldn’t be allowed, like any moment Tommy’s going to sit up in horrified realization and ask him to leave. 

Of course, in Jon’s experience, the horrified realization generally comes after the orgasm, not before it, so he’s probably got a few more minutes. 

He shoves down that part of his brain and tries to think about the D.C. fireworks show, and about whether Tommy would react well if Jon sucked on his balls. The answer to the second is a resounding yes—literally, Tommy saying “Yes, _yes_ ,” loud enough to almost startle Jon off of him. 

Jon can’t wait to find out how Tommy will react to Jon eating him out, if this is his baseline for quotidian pleasures. Not today, but—soon, maybe. If this isn’t a fever dream he’s about to wake up from. 

He wants to hear Tommy come, now, and he switches back up to his cock, working him over in earnest. He lets it get sloppy, wet under his fingers where he’s jerking Tommy, wetter around his lips where he’s sucking him. 

One of Tommy’s hands comes up to stroke his face, fingertips shaking against Jon’s cheek. Tommy doesn’t grab or pull, just pets him, up over the curve of his ear and into his hair. “God—Jon,” Tommy croaks, voice thin. “ _Jon_.” 

Jon wants to record _that_ and use it as a text tone. Though it would be weird around the office for at least two reasons.

He sucks harder, faster, scrapes the nails of his free hand down Tommy’s thigh again and then down his stomach, and Tommy’s hand falls away, fisting at his hip. His own nails dig into his skin, and okay, that’s a definite thing, then. Jon likes it, Tommy adding to his own pleasure. 

Between the two of them they drive Tommy over the edge, a surprisingly silent thing: one caught breath and then Tommy’s frozen, holding it in. He only gasps it back out after, when Jon’s already starting to wipe his mouth and climb up onto the bed. 

Their positioning is no longer ideal; Jon shoves at Tommy’s shoulder until Tommy regains enough higher brain function to move up and make room for both their heads on the mound of pillows. Tommy’s shirt gets rucked up, doing it, and Jon takes full advantage, running his fingers all over Tommy’s torso. Tommy’s fucking gorgeous. Jon’s always known that, but in a museum way, a Please Don’t Touch the Artwork way. It’s different to feel the soft skin and the gentle movement of muscles underneath. 

“Hey,” Tommy says, rolling towards Jon a little and getting one of his hands on Jon’s hip. It feels like a promise. 

“Hey,” Jon says. It’s harder to talk, all of a sudden. Jon’s fully clothed, and his mouth still tastes like Tommy’s come. 

“How did you know that I’d like that?” Tommy asks, and then, a useful clarification, “I mean—the part with you—that you were on the floor.” A blush rises across his cheeks.

Jon kisses the soft skin of Tommy’s inner arm, and smiles against it. Maybe he can talk, after all. “Tommy, I’m going to give you a free bit of knowledge, just a totally generous gift of my extensive gay experience: everyone likes that.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and buries his face in Jon’s hair. “Um, noted. For, uh, future reference.” 

Jon could die at this moment, thinking about Tommy on his knees for Jon, and be happy. On the other hand, he could live past this moment, and possibly get to experience it in real life. That seems better. 

“You haven’t—maybe we could—uh,” Tommy says. He can’t quite meet Jon’s eyes, which is more or less a giveaway as to what he means. And if it wasn’t, the hand snaking onto Jon’s ass to press against the seam of his pants certainly would be. 

“I literally just had a burger and half a steak,” Jon says. “That’s not happening.” 

Tommy’s face goes red at a speed Jon thinks might be world-record level. His mouth opens, and then, apparently rethinking whatever he was about to ask, it closes.

“Look, I’ll teach you more principles of gay sex later, okay? That’s, like, 201 level. I know you like to know everything all at once, but don’t worry about it right now. Just—” he wiggles in closer, pressing his clothed dick against Tommy’s stomach. “Just lie there and look pretty, you’re good at that already.”

Tommy laughs, and his hand tightens on Jon’s ass, pulling him in tighter. “Hang on, though, do I get to see you naked? Because I’ve been hoping for that for a while. If that’s okay, I mean.” 

Four separate self-deprecating comments run through Jon’s mind at once; he tamps them down. “That’s okay,” he says instead. “Take your shirt off.” 

He tilts away to strip, pure efficiency, and rolls back towards Tommy quickly, hustling out of full view. “Hey,” Tommy says, and leans in to kiss him. “I want to—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but his hands are everywhere at once, suddenly, stroking down Jon’s sides and back up his chest. He runs a tentative fingertip over Jon’s nipple and Jon shies away from it.

“Sorry,” Tommy says. “Anywhere else I should steer clear?” He seems more comfortable, now he’s touching and not just touched. “Anywhere particularly good?”

“I mean, a little dick-play is always—ah, fuck,” Jon gasps, as Tommy wraps warm fingers around his cock. “That’s good, yeah.” Tommy lets go of him just long enough to pump some hand lotion from a bottle on the nightstand and then he’s back, slippery and tight.

Tommy tilts in to kiss Jon’s neck, his jaw, the hollow under his ear, all the while stroking him slow and steady. “Thought about this,” Tommy murmurs, only barely audible. “Other stuff, too.” 

“Other stuff is on the table,” Jon says, and threads his fingers into Tommy’s hair. “So much other stuff. I’m like an other stuff Narnia. There’s more inside than outside. Fuck. I can’t do metaphors when you’re touching me, ignore that one.” 

Tommy laughs, because Tommy always laughs at Jon’s jokes, even the really stupid ones. Jon fucking loves that about him. 

The song changes. The playlist must have come back around to the beginning, because it’s “Layla.” 

“No, nope, no,” Tommy says, dropping Jon’s dick and scrambling for the phone. “This one comes off the playlist. I do not want to think about a Labrador right now.” 

“Good call, but terrible timing,” Jon grits out, but they’re back on Tove Lo almost before he’s done saying it, and Tommy’s hand is back on him, so it’s fine, it’s fine. He hooks an ankle around Tommy’s leg, twining them together, and goes back to groping Tommy’s ass. “Can’t believe I get to touch you,” he says, and saying it out loud makes his heart thump painfully in his chest, like it’s too much, too soon, too risky to admit. 

Tommy kisses him again. Maybe that’s his idea of an answer. If so, Jon will take it. Tommy’s mouth is warm and soft and generous, and his hand is tight and perfect, and Jon’s hips start moving with the rhythm Tommy’s setting. He won’t last; he can’t last, after everything that’s happened tonight. 

It’s impossible to keep kissing Tommy, but Tommy keeps kissing him, anyway, licking at his lax mouth, rubbing their lips against each other. 

Jon could get used to this. It’s a terrifying thought, but the overpowering sense he has is one of elation. He might be able to get used to this. He might actually have the chance to get used to being with Tommy. 

He tips his head back, feels the press of Tommy’s mouth on his throat, and comes.

***

They pick up Laila on Saturday morning. It’s the third morning in a row that Jon has woken up next to Tommy; he’s already ruined for ever sleeping alone again. Pundit seems to like it, too, perhaps because Tommy doesn’t take her for granted as much as Jon does. Jon supposes that might change, with time or the addition of Laila. Somehow, he doesn’t think it will. 

Chrissy greets them at the front. The house looks better, like she’s had the breathing room to weed the front garden and plant some new flowers. She looks full of energy. “Perfect timing,” she says. “I’m about to take the crew on a run. I only need five minutes with you for the paperwork.” 

Tommy trails Jon into the house, his hand on Jon’s lower back. It makes Jon shiver, and he leans back to whisper, “Don’t get me hard in front of all these dogs, it’s weird,” just to hear Tommy laugh. 

Jon fusses over the dogs while Tommy fills out paperwork, collects Laila’s license and rabies tag, types his information into the microchip database, and discreetly passes Chrissy a check for the adoption that might dwarf Jon’s, based on her indrawn breath when she sees it. 

Laila herself is happy to see them, winding herself around Jon’s legs and licking his face. “Hey, pretty girl,” he tells her. “You want to come home with us? Yeah? You want to go running with Tommy while I stay in bed and take over the warm spot? That sound good?” She licks him more frantically, so maybe it does sound good to her. 

Chrissy’s giving Tommy what sounds like a well-practiced spiel. “I’ve got a bag of the food she’s on now so you can transition her onto her new food, that folder’s her medical records, and there’s a copy of The Other End of the Leash in the bag. Uh, you get a coupon for obedience classes at a club in the Valley, if you’re willing to drive that far, or I can put you in touch with a couple of trainers closer to where you are. There’s a shopping list in the bag, too, in case you want to stop at a pet store on your way home.” She pauses, looking over at Laila. “If there’s an adoption breakdown, please bring her back here. We don’t judge. We just want to make sure she’s okay.” 

“I promise,” Tommy says, and his voice is serious. “I want her to be okay, too.” 

“Yeah,” Chrissy says. “I can see that. Okay. I think that’s everything.” 

Jon stands up, extends his hand to Chrissy. “Thank you.” Tommy takes her hand next, and she pulls him into a hug. 

“Be good to my girl,” she says, smiling at him. 

“We will,” Tommy promises.

Pundit is already at Tommy’s when they get there, and she’s thrilled to see Laila. Laila doesn’t know who to play with first, so they take her in the back yard and let her run off some of her energy, chasing Pundit first and then a ball. Pundit tires long before Laila does, but eventually they wear her out, and she comes to lie with them in the grass, panting, sides heaving as she catches her breath.

Jon can see what Tommy means, about big dogs. Laila can press against his whole side, full of life and thudding heartbeats. She’s so much more of a presence than he’s used to—not better, obviously, but different.

Tommy stands up and takes photos of Jon and the dogs, and then Jon switches to get pictures of Tommy. They manage a couple of joint photos with Laila, although she’s blurred in all of them. Jon sends a couple to Favs and Emily and Dan, and Tommy posts one to twitter, just of Laila and Pundit chewing on opposite ends of the same rubber tug toy. 

Emily texts him first: _She’s beautiful! Are you going to let her sleep in your bed?_ He shows it to Tommy.

“We can get her a bed and put it in the corner,” Tommy says. “And one for Pundit.”

“Pundit sleeps in the bed,” Jon points out. Tommy’s had three nights to learn that lesson.

“Maybe she’ll start sleeping with Laila,” Tommy says. “Keep her company.”

“Maybe we’ll need a bigger bed,” Jon says. It feels—delicious, to talk like this, about the future. About joint furniture and maybe joint dogs. “Maybe we should set up one of those whole-room mattresses like they have in the love hotels in Japan.”

Tommy drops his phone in the grass and rolls up on top of Jon, grinning down at him. “And what do you know about love hotels, hmm?”

Laila’s cold snout interrupts them. “She thinks we’re wrestling,” Tommy says, and pushes her back, but that only seems to reinforce her feeling that this is some kind of game. She jumps around them, and Jon laughs, wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her down with them.

“C’mere, wild girl. We’re doing quiet time right now. See, Pundit’s good at quiet time. You’ll have to learn from her.” 

Tommy sneaks around the tangle of arms and dog to kiss Jon’s neck. “I’m glad you can see the appeal of big dogs,” he says. 

“I’m glad you like the rowdy ones,” Jon says, and this time, when they kiss, Laila doesn’t interrupt them.


End file.
